


raggedy ann

by chromestorm



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Martine dies like the punk ass bitch she is, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 12:45:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3411122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chromestorm/pseuds/chromestorm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s meant to be harmless; some casual words of advice delivered as an offhand comment more than anything else, but when she looks up next and catches a dopey looking smile on Root’s face as if she were drugged and latching onto a thought that she enjoys entirely way too much, Shaw can’t help but feel like she might have overplayed her cards a little bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	raggedy ann

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aelysian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aelysian/gifts), [twit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twit/gifts).



> for the face and twit, because i love them and they love me (i think).
> 
> as requested, under the guidelines of: a.) "you’re going to look like a patchwork doll if you keep that up" b.) inappropriate touching c.) Martine must die
> 
> sorry for the wait. hope you guys like it.
> 
> (oh, this was actually from an anon prompt on tumblr, so i guess it's for anon too, oops)

The numbers keep coming, often and without warning as they always do, and they keep doing their jobs. It’s harder now, what with having to balance two (three? Does her side-side criminal life count?) lives while Samaritan continues its hunt for them, but they manage to get by all right even if there are a few more close calls than Harold’s comfortable with.

 

Recently though, their numbers haven’t been giving them much trouble. More often than not they’re able to deal with them just fine by placing a few anonymous phone calls to the right authorities, and even when they require more work John’s cover identity as a cop puts him in the perfect position to deal with a handful of their numbers on his own. The lucky bastard. Although John doesn’t see it that way, of course.

 

Actually, it’s been several weeks since any of their missions have ended at gunpoint. And while Harold’s ecstatic about the relative shortage of mayhem taking place in the city, Shaw also doesn’t miss the way he eyes her all suspiciously like she’s the one who’s about to go off to make trouble of her own.

 

As if.

 

If anything, Harold should really be more concerned about John going stir crazy. He’s the one being sent to mandatory therapy sessions for his unstoppable kneecap rampage, after all. And as much as she hates the make-up counter job, Shaw really has no problems keeping low and at the very least she still gets some of her kicks in from her b-rate crime job.

 

So, yeah. She’s leading three lives and her real one—which is supposed to be the fun one, with all the protecting and the shooting and the AI apocalypse-ness of it—is apparently letting her down on all those fronts. Between the three of them, she never would have guessed that handling the irrelevant numbers in the middle of an AI war could get this boring.

 

Which is weird, because while things have been quiet on their end, Root’s side of things seem anything but.

 

Shaw isn’t exactly sure what the Machine has her doing these days but if the fact that she comes back to New York City with a brand new bullet hole in her person every time is any indication, then she must be the one getting all the action.

 

(Which doesn’t make any sense to her because there’s the three of them managing numbers without any hitch and then there’s Root who does whatever it is she does and she’s only one person and why is the Machine allowing this to happen, allowing her to run off on her own without any backup when there’s three of them sitting on their asses and can’t the Machine spare one of them at least?)

 

It’s really getting kind of ridiculous, just how often Root willingly launches herself into such shitty situations. Storming in with two guns blazing seems to be her chosen signature for the time being and as much as Shaw might find the look on her attractive (she has certain weaknesses and hot people proficient with guns may very well be one of them), it isn’t actually doing anything for the woman’s safety. At all.

 

In fact, she's just about gotten to the point where she’s legitimately convinced that Root actually thinks herself some kind of bulletproof prophet.

 

Except that’s obviously not the case when Shaw strolls into the subway one night only to find Root already there, sitting down on a workbench and in the middle of haphazardly slapping gauze just over where her neck meets her shoulder. Shaw frowns as soon as she spots the motion.

 

“Fancy seeing you here,” Root says when she notices her, pausing to look up from what Shaw’s sure is a thoroughly botched dressing job. She makes her way over and lo and behold what she sees on the other woman’s shoulder is a mess of bandages and tape and plastic.

 

It’s sloppy work and it offends her a little bit; she’s never considered herself a perfectionist before but if seeing less than adequate work and taking matters into her own hands because she knows she can do better makes her one then, well, there are worse things to be. She swats at Root’s hands, ignoring her raised brow when Shaw reaches over to pull out her bandages and examine the damage.

 

Which turns out to be a through and through bullet hole. Of course.

 

“Anyone ever tell you you’re crap at this?” She grabs a nearby first aid kit and prepares herself to start the work all over.

 

“Well we can’t both be the doctor-turned-assassin in this relationship.”

 

The urge to roll her eyes almost proves too much to resist. “Whatever.”

 

A closer look at Root’s injury tells her that the woman had at least bothered to clean and treat it properly. (Which, wow. What a surprise.) She sizes up the amount of dressing she needs before taking a pair of scissors from the kit and starts cutting. “So the Machine’s got you off running more solo kamikaze missions?”

 

“You remember the blonde Samaritan agent? From the election?” Root asks, and the question in response to her question pretty much all but tells Shaw that the other woman is trying to deflect, not that that’s anything new. Shaw takes the bait anyway because pulling straight up answers from this particular woman is like pulling teeth and she just does not have the energy or patience for that right now.

 

“I remember that she’s exceptionally bad at tracking.”

 

Root snorts at that, the movement shaking her frame, briefly throwing Shaw’s hands off when she tries to apply the dressing. She glares, waiting until after Root is settled before finally pressing the material down over the wound. And if she pushes on it a bit harder than she should, at least Root doesn’t complain.

 

“Yes, that one. As luck would have it we were in the same place at the same time.”

 

“And you let her get another shot in? What does that make it, three now?”

 

“Didn’t realize you were counting, Shaw.” Root lays the sarcasm on thick but despite that it doesn’t really do anything to hide her obvious irritation at the jab and Shaw can’t help but smirk as she continues working.

 

She’s just finished taping the dressing down when Root speaks up again, voice reverting back to its cheery timbre that grates on Shaw’s nerves equally as much as it keeps her on her toes. “Anyway, that’s the last shot she’ll ever be getting in, so. Maybe I should be savouring it?”

 

That makes Shaw pause for a moment, her otherwise steady hands holding bandages suspended just above skin that’s surprisingly warm to the touch given that they’re in an abandoned subway in the middle of winter. “Harold won’t like hearing the story behind that.”

 

Root shrugs. “He wasn’t there. It wasn’t his call to make.”

 

Shaw hums under her breath in response. She doesn’t exactly disagree and she can’t dispute the bonus of having one less Samaritan agent to worry about when they’re already so out-manned in every capacity. “Well blonde agent or no, you’re going to look like a patchwork doll if you keep this up.”

 

It’s meant to be harmless; some casual words of advice delivered as an offhand comment more than anything else, but when she looks up next and catches a dopey looking smile on Root’s face as if she were drugged and latching onto a thought that she enjoys entirely way too much, Shaw can’t help but feel like she might have overplayed her cards a little bit.

 

Because while she couldn’t care less what Root gets up to, the mission does actually hang on her ability to avoid getting shot in the important bits.

 

To her credit, Root doesn’t come at her with the usual innuendo hot on her lips. But what she does do instead is continue to watch her intently, brown eyes astute and lingering, and that proves to be just as annoying if not even more unsettling.

 

She huffs, leaning in closer and finishing up with the dressing by topping it off with fresh bandages and plastic.

 

“Well this was nice and cozy,” Root quips, and for once Shaw would be almost thankful for the break in silence if it weren’t for the uninvited hand wandering along her hip that accompanied it. She allows it—for now—but not without narrowing her eyes and making the silent promise of a broken hand and possible further violence clear if she tries to do anything else.

 

Two beats later and neither of them have moved so much as an inch. They’re almost too close and from this position with Root still sat down, Shaw hovers over the other woman. It’s familiar but it feels different somehow and she thinks that the expression on Root’s face has never looked more genuinely charmed than now.

 

(The realization throws her off, a little bit, and she doesn’t know what to do with it.)

 

There’s an expectancy building up in the air between them, heavy and insistent, and Shaw isn’t sure if it’s coming from her or Root.

 

Root tilts her head to the side all of a sudden, her eyes glazing over and darting away and just like that, just like a persistent spin top accelerated and relentless in its motion finally yielding and toppling over its axis, the moment is over and a decision has been made for them.

 

Shaw moves away gingerly and straightens her back before turning away to dispose of the used dressings and bandages. She hears Root following to stand after her half a second later and tries not to think about the spot on her side where her hand had been just seconds ago, burning and tingling with both relief and dissatisfaction.

 

“Sorry to cut our date short, Sam.” Root’s voice comes from right next to her ear and damn it, it actually takes her by surprise. She’s seething inwardly at her self-distraction and next thing she knows, she’s feeling the light brush of lips against her cheek and hearing a quickly muttered _gotta go_.

 

It’s over and done with before she can react, before she can hold the threat of violence over Root’s head or complain or do something—anything—else and _fuck_ , she’s so off-balance that she’s actually disgusted with herself.

 

She turns toward the exit of the station and shakes her head, sighs out the frustration and tenseness out of her body that’s oddly riled up from five seconds of…something.

 

The subway is empty and she’s alone again, the steady sound of Root’s boots fading away into the winter night and the bandages still in Shaw’s hands the only evidence she was ever there at all.

 

Honestly. That woman.


End file.
